Friday, November 30, 2007

You Sexy Thing

Greetings Campers! So before The Research Project From Hell consumes my soul for the remainder of the weekend, I thought I'd delight you all with a little meme, courtesy of Princess Pointful.

(Speaking of TRPFH, there's still time for those five little words. I promise, this is the absolute last time I will bug you about it! Scout's honor!)

And now, in the meme time (oh, I slay me)...

The Rules:

1. Put your iTunes/ music player on Shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
(this is in capital letters, so it is very serious. No hiding your showtunes, folks!)

After you’ve answered all of the questions, tag 5 other people and then let them know they’ve been tagged to do the meme themselves!

(30+ gigs of MP3s on shuffle. This is gonna be interesting...)

Jammin' -- Bob Marley

The Fruit That Ate Itself -- Modest Mouse
(So basically I'm a train wreck. Thanks Windows Media Player!)

Ocean -- The Velvet Underground
("madness seeks out a lover" hmmm...)

My Own Worst Enemy -- lit
(Okay WMP, now you're just fucking with me)

Precious -- Depeche Mode
(so apparently it's to suffer. fabulous.)

Hypnotized -- Bjork & Paul Oakenfold
(I believe in what I see, did the night play tricks on me...)

Lost in the Supermarket -- The Afghan Whigs
(Guaranteed personality. I can work with that.)

Hide Your Love Away -- Oasis
(Hmm... second cover song in a row. And totally off the mark.)

51-7 -- Camper van Beethoven

WHAT IS 2+2?
Title & Registration -- Death Cab for Cutie

Rock N Roll Suicide -- David Bowie
(hmmm... one of them perhaps...)

13 Questions -- Seatrain
(where on earth did this come from??)

You Are My Sunshine -- Hank Williams Sr.
(oh ain't that the fuckin' truth??)

Big Empty -- Stone Temple Pilots
(Oh man...)

Berceuse sur le nom de Gabriel Fauré -- Ravel

Lee -- Tenacious D
(so, I guess that means they like me...)

The Word Fuck -- Monty Python
(I'm sorry, I am almost laughing too hard to type... but totally sums up my thoughts on weddings...)

The Dark End of the Street -- The Afghan Whigs
(this is... um.... absolutely perfect)

Polar Opposites -- Modest Mouse
("trying to drink away the part of the day"... teehee)

Red Headed Woman -- The Meteors

I Don't Want to Get Over You -- Magnetic Fields
(well, if we consider that B is a friend... that could work...)

You Sexy Thing -- Hot Chocolate
(damn right I am!)

And five people to tag (oh lord, who hasn't done this one yet?)

Okay, sorry, I'm copping out on this one. If you haven't done it already, consider yourself tagged!

If you come back and tell me you did it, I will give you a digital cookie. That would be an excellent way to de-lurk, dontcha know ;)


Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Say What Now?

Greetings from my desk.

Yes, I know that technically I should be doing, oh, maybe, work while I'm at work; but the only task I currently have on my plate is that of sealing approximately 357 large envelopes. So I thought I would burn myself out on other activities before tackling a chore that requires roughly the intellectual capacity of a brine shrimp.

So I've been doing research. And just for the record, JSTOR? I heart you.

Let it be known that for the whole of this semester of Most Hated Class, Theory has been kicking my ass. No, not one particular theory. Just Theory. In general. And today I found a stunning example of why.

You all know Feminism, right? Of course you do, being the kick-ass women that most of you are. Not to say that there are any non-kickass women among you, just that at least one of you happens to be a man; though I suppose even he could be a kickass woman if he wanted to. Queer Theory says so. Ugh, damnit, there I go again. If I say "Critical Pegagogy" just smack me.

But I digress.

So we've established that we are all aware that Feminism exists, yes? And somewhere in the course of our lives, we've probably all heard mention of Radical Feminists. Now, I always thought that simply meant the Feminists who took things to the extreme, hence the "radical" bit. But no, as I recently learned, that is actually a defined form of Feminism, and varies significantly from, say, Liberal Feminism, Ecofeminism, Individualist Feminism, Black Feminism, Socialist Feminism, Marxist Feminism, Post-structural, Postmodern, or simply Postfeminism... (thank you Wikipedia). Not to mention Corporeal Feminism and Evangelical Feminism which were the two I encountered in my research that caused me to mutter "are you fucking kidding??" to the unseen author, and hence spawned this little diatribe.

In conclusion: Theory, stop being so damned complex. You occassionally (okay, okay, frequently) make me feel stupid, when I know damned well that I'm not. Stupid people don't get Master's degrees at Resarch One institutions. So nyeh! *sticks out tongue*

But apparently immature people do.

Right. That is all.

Yes, I think I'm ready for those envelopes now...

* * * *

Addendum: Thanks to everyone who has responded to yesterday's post! Please, keep 'em coming! Tell your friends! And please feel free to leave your response in an anonymous comment if you don't want your identity attached.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Homework... for you!

This, my bloggy friends, is a cry for help.

No, not in the Look At Me I'm Drinking Too Much/Doing Drugs/Wasting Away/Making Poor Decisions/Oh My God I'm Such A Disaster sense...

More in the My Reasearch Project Is Kicking My Ass And My Inner Perfectionist Is Screaming That I Need More Information To Do This Properly sense!

So, my dear readers, this is what I ask of you (and any other female you care to forward this post to--yes, sorry boys, for the time being this is women-only).

Choose five words (less if you so desire, but no more than five) that you would use to describe your body.


Choose five (or less) words that you would use to describe your relationship with your body.

(Overacheivers and bored bloggers feel free to do both!)

You can post your response in a comment, or if you prefer to do it privately you can email it to Absolutely no real names will be used (for you non-anonymous bloggers out there), but by responding you do give me license to use your words in my project--which involves the writing of a script which may eventually be performed. In front of people. Scary. (For me, not for you).

Don't worry if your choices are the same as or similar to someone else's--there are no points for originality, just honesty.

Note to any and all lurkers out there: Now would be an excellent time to de-lurk! :)

There may be a follow-up assignment a few days down the line for those of you inclined to lengthier descriptions/discussions, but for the time being this little bit of help would be Oh So Very Much Appreciated!

I've got to admit that I feel sort of cheap, whoring my blog for research like this. Which is why I'm not going to pester you to link to this post in your own blogs. I'm not that tawdry. (See what I did there? See that? Damn, my ex-roommate is right, I am Passive Aggressive...)

I hope this doesn't change your opinion of me dear friends. I promise the blog will be back to business as usual just as soon as The Project From Hell releases its death grip on my soul.

And at Princess of the Universe's request, yes, I will be happy to share the fruits of my labor with you all when I have finished. I'll spare you the boring bits (bids for future research, etc.), but will be happy to share what portions of the script I manage to complete! And my reading list, which is actually pretty kick-ass.

A Big Bloggy THANK YOU in advance for, well, saving my butt. :)

Monday, November 26, 2007

Vacation? Well, that's debatable...

Just a quick-ish one today to let you all know that, no, I have not been in a Turkey Coma for the past 4 days. But my life? SO not my own right now. So here's the holiday recap:

The Friday after Turkey Day was lovely. I had breakfast with my Girls, where there was much exchanging of gossip and exclaiming over babies and toddlers and bellies. The BFF is ready to pop with baby #2 any day now, and her daughter is getting SOOOO big. And feisty! I really wish I could see them more than a few times a year. However, when I'm back for Christmas the new baby should be here (and his name? perfect!), so I'll get to see him while he's still itty-bitty.

Also on Friday was the much-anticipated visit to the llama farm! Now, I know that most of you here in blogland squee over friends and engagements and cute little babies, but me? I squee over llamas. It's a little weird, yes, but photos of our wooly friends are forthcoming. And I got an eskimo kiss from a llama! That really may have been the single cutest experience of my life. I also got some handspun yarn, so I can knit myself a llama scarf.

Saturday we drove up to Bumblefuck for my cousin's wedding. I worked on school work the whole way there and back, and still wasn't finished with my stupid journal! However the wedding was nice, the bride is adorable, and there was plenty of food and booze at the reception. It was good to finally see that side of the family again, even if everyone was flustered with wedding business. One of my cousins now has five children. FIVE! They are all adorable though, and the newest--a four month old boy--is beyond all doubt the cutest baby I have ever seen, bar none! (Just don't tell any of the Girls that I said so!).

Sunday we drove back to the parents' house, and shortly thereafter it was time to take me to the train station--replete with an extra heavy suitcase full of stuff I was lugging back to NYC. Ran into an old friend from high school (who also lives in Brooklyn these days) while waiting for the train, so he and I ended up sitting together and catching up on the way back to the city--which totally foiled my plans to get work done on the way, but I think my brain needed a break anyway.

I got back to my apartment a little after 9:30 and much to my amazement my cat did not seem at all upset with me for leaving her for 4 days, nor had she expressed any liquid displeasure on any of the furniture! It's a miracle! And so I unpacked and immediately sat down to do more work, and finally finished my journal around midnight and went to bed.

And got up this morning and came to work.

I think I need a vacation from my vacation.

Or just my life.

Journal #1 is done, but I still have an obscene amount of work to accomplish in the next 2 weeks, hence the whole my-life-is-not-my-own syndrome in which I am currently ensconced. The GINORMOUS research project is due one week from today, and have I conducted a single interview? Oh, that would be... umm... NO. However I do have my first one scheduled for tonight.

My project is on women and body image (and idea that actually stemmed from this post and all of the positive responses it garnered--thanks guys!), and so A has agreed to be my guinea pig, er, first interview subject. While I'm glad that my first interview will be with someone with whom I am totally comfortable (and who can tell me if my questions suck), it also means that I will get NO work done once the interview is over, as I'm sure we'll end up chatting away for the remainder of the evening.

Good for my sanity, bad for my workload.

I need a cookie.

Thursday, November 22, 2007


Oh how I wish I could bottle smell and broadcast it over the internet, because my house right now? Smells soooooo good! My stomach is doing the cha-cha in anticipation of the decadence to come... Mmmmm....

So Happy Thanksgiving to the American readers! May your day be filled with turkey and love (or Tofurky for any vegetarians, though personally I find bean curd masquerading as meat to be bordering on sacrilege). I could write a lengthy post about the many things for which I am thankful, but I will spare you. I'm sure with NaBloPoMo'ers running out of things to write about (or being in a tryptophan-induced coma) there will be many lists of such nature for you to peruse.

And also, while this is one of my favourite holidays, I feel like some people use Thanksgiving as a cop-out. Much like Valentine's Day (which, yes, I loathe) is treated as "the one day a year to do nice things for the person you love/like/pine-for," I think some people treat Thanksgiving as "the one day a year to actually show gratitude."

Me? I'm grateful every day for the gifts life has given me. I am grateful for my health, my education, the wonderful people who have come in and out of my life over the years, and I am especially grateful when the subway actually arrives on time. Even when I'm grumpy and depressed, in the back of my mind I am always aware of just how very lucky I am.

*puts away soapbox*

And Thanksgiving, let's be honest, is so all about the turkey.

And gravy.

And stuffing.

Oh my...


Greetings, dearest readers. I come to you, somewhat intoxicated, from a bed in the room in which I grew up. A much transformed room, to be certain, but geographically the same.

I should qualify, I suppose. I lived in the same house from birth until my first apartment. My bedroom was always a fairly accurate depiction of myself--painted in colours I chose and an absolute disaster to the untrained eye, yet I could find anything amongst the debris (much like Stacy's younger brother in "The Babysitter's Club," a point on which I always took much pride).

As my adolescence progressed, the walls slowly became covered in graffiti to go along with the posters, photographs, and other random snippets of my life (a tapestry made at girl scout camp, a shredded NKOTB tape, random gifts from High School Boyfriend). I was the envy of many, because my parents allowed such self-expression. Graffiti on the walls. Black satin sheets. Multiple self-inflicted holes in my ears and hair that progressed through nearly every colour of the rainbow.

I would not be the person I am today if it were not for my parents, and the incredible open and loving way in which they raised me. I have often described them as perfect, and incited much jealousy among my peers as I describe a typical weekend at home (hence the somewhat intoxicated state in which I currently find myself).

Yet tonight I had a realization--one which I feel I've had several times before, but never dared to articulate.

My parents are not perfect.

Wonderful? Yes. Excellent? Absolutely. Two of my dearest friends? You betcha.

But perfect? Difficult though it is to admit... not so much.

The older I grow the more I notice things. Small idiosyncrasies, a tendency to be stuck in a certain point of view, that makes me want to cry out "No! Don't you see? It can so easily go another way..." But I stay silent. Why? Because open and wonderful as our relationship may be, they are still the parents, and I still the child.

And frustrating though it may be at times, I believe therein lies the strength of our relationship.

I would be hard-pressed to explain how it came about, and I can only hope to emulate the circumstances should I ever have children. Something about the dynamic of openness and respect. I know there are lines I should not cross, yet I cannot resent them, because so many other conventional lines have been left in the dust.

The fact that I can see the faults in my parents yet still love them unconditionally speaks volumes about our relationship. It may not be perfect, but it is real. And I would never ask for anything different.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

This is all my current attention span is capable of...

Dear Grad School,
I would like my soul back please. Please return in the enclosed self-addressed, stamped envelope at your earliest convenience.
The Frog Princess

Dear Fellow Shoppers in the Clearance section of DSW Last Friday,
You can wait! Yes, I understand that it is of dire importance that you check the price tag on those off-season Steve Madden espadrilles RIGHT THIS MINUTE, but elbowing me out of the way while I stand precariously balanced on one foot, trying to zip up my boot? Not cool. Calm the fuck down, it's not like you're going to buy them anyway.
All the Best,

Dear Lady Screaming Obscenities at her Toddler in the Subway Station,
You make my soul hurt. People like you should not be allowed to procreate. Please, for the love of all that is sacred, shut the fuck up and find a way to release your anger that will not result in yet another adult who thinks children are proper substitutes for punching bags (emotional or otherwise).

Dear Body,
I offer you nothing but thanks for the stoic way in which you handled the myriad foreign bodies injected into you last Thursday. Do not, however, think that your current behavior has gone unnoticed. I was fully aware this morning, for example, of your desire to develop a head cold, potentially with a sore throat to accompany it. Let it be known that this behavior is entirely unacceptable. At least until the semester is over.
I appreciate your cooperation on this matter.

Dear B,
While on one hand I am grateful that everything has returned to business as usual between us after my little outpouring, on the other hand it has left me even more unsettled. Sure, it would suck if you were awkwardly avoiding me (as would all the questions from the general public that would certainly ensue), but goddamnit, sometimes when you smile at me it's like being kicked in the chest. Why? Because it's the same smile that 2 weeks ago would have made me feel like skipping... and it still looks the same. Am I/was I completely deluded? Any clarification on the subject would be much appreciated.

Dear Universe,
Just once, could my personal life maybe not be complicated and confusing? That would be awesome.

Dear Family and Friends,
I will be seeing you oh-so-soon! Please excuse the glazed look in my eye, my inability to complete a sentence, and the random references to critical pedagogy. I promise, I'll be back to normal soon.
All my Love,

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Hey, Good Lookin'...Waaaatcha Got Cookin'?

"Gee Mom, dinner smells great! What are we having?"

"Your favourite Honey... Ears!"

(Believe it or not, this actually is school-related).

What did you do with your Saturday?

Thursday, November 15, 2007



So today I got my travel vaccinations for Uganda. In the left arm, there was Yellow Fever and a Tetanus booster. In the right, Typhoid, a Polio booster, and a Flu shot.

Bearing in mind that this all took place around 4:30 this afternoon, I have a few observations:

1. Yellow Fever vaccine makes you fucking loopy. I'm feeling better now, but I was a complete mess in my 6:45 class--fortunately my professor has a sense of humor. At one point I believe I told Slater that my name was Pablo, and another girl that Penn Station on Thanksgiving is awful because it "smells like people."

2. If you can't lift your arms to shoulder height without wincing and all the lights in your apartment are operated by pull chains... you'd better either find a flashlight or get used to the dark.

Meme, a name, I call myself...

Fa, a long long way to run!

Damn, what is it with me and the Sound of Music references in this blog?

Anyway, hooray! Princess of the Universe tagged me for my first meme ever! It's like I finally got picked for dodge-ball...

*sniffs* You like me! You really like me!

Wow, sorry. Thanks to End of Semester Hell you can expect many sleep-deprivation-induced moments of inanity, much like the above. Bear with me, it will all be over soon.

Anyway, never fear Princess... there is always time for blogging! After all, procrastination is nothing if not an art!

So here we go...

Here are the Rules:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 5 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 5 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are TAGGED by leaving a comment on their blog.

So, what have we got today?

1. I. Remember. EVERYTHING. Future boyfriends beware, any untoward or off-hand comment will be subconsciously filed away for future use. As will nearly every anecdote you ever tell, the name of your best friend's boyfriend's cousin's cat that was hit by a car in 1982 (as well as the make and model of said car, the name of the street, and what brand of shoes the driver was wearing), and the type of sandwich you ate on our third lunch date. This is not a conscious effort, I just have an exceptionally good memory. For the show I am working on, I am off-book for other characters in scenes I'm not even in! But birthdays? Paying my bills? The name of a person I met 2 minutes ago? These flit off into the ether, never to be seen again... Go figure.

2. I have finger toes. Seriously, I can flip you off with my middle toe. I'd take pictures, but I'm at work, and that might look weird. I think this might be part of the reason I love being barefoot--it's almost like having extra hands! Don't get me wrong, I'm not a circus performer. I can't write with them or use chopsticks (dude, how cool would that be?!?), but I can pick up just about anything. In elementary school our "Track and Field Day" involved many games and activities for those of us not inclined towards running, and one of them was retrieving marbles from the bottom of a kiddie pool using only your feet. I was unstoppable.

3. More than anything in the world, I hate feeling stupid. I can dredge up a memory of something embarassing that happened a decade ago--something I guaruntee nobody but me remembers--and get just as embarassed and angry at myself thinking about it as I was at the time it happened. Why can't I let go? No idea.

4. When I was a kid I took myself way too seriously. I was that kid who was 10-going-on-30, who treated every task as monumental, who absolutely refused to fail (even when I very clearly was). When I first discovered theatre, I only wanted to do drama, because that was real--ironically I have since learned that comedy is SO much harder! I was a "serious" dancer too--no hip hop or "sexy" dancing for me, I was all about Martha Graham and Alvin Ailey. And while this seriousness has served me well, I feel like I missed out on some things as well. It took me forever to figure out how to dance in a club without feeling like an idiot, and now that I have? LOVE it! I think sometimes in my adult life I now overcompensate for my youthful seriousness by taking nothing seriously. Perhaps when I hit 30 I can find a happy medium.

5. I really don't care about getting married. I always thought I did, but honestly--I could live without. I'm not saying I wouldn't get married, just that I would be equally happy doing the Kurt Russell-Goldie Hawn thing. This is all provided, of course, that I can actually find a man whom I can tolerate being around for that long, who can also tolerate me! That, in and of itself, will be a monumental acheivement.

Hmmm... yes, I am an odd duck. I was told as much last night by a freshman who is a DECADE younger than me. So clearly, this is no secret.

Anyway, TAG! The following people are "it":

1. Princess Pointful. Because she is also trapped in End Of Semester Hell, and us Princesses have got to stick together :)
2. Spunk. Soon-to-be-unemployed redheads need entertainment. Also whatever she writes will make me laugh.
3. Samantha. Meeting a cute boy at jury duty? Totally deserves a tag...
4. Hope. If I had lived half the places she's lived... I would have a very interesting accent indeed.
5. Ashley. Unless she's been eaten by Thesis...

You have your mission, go forth! And be bloggy!

(Damnit, I really need to get more sleep...)

Wednesday, November 14, 2007


Last night as I sat in Most Hated Class half-listening to the inane questions coming from my fellow students regarding our culminating research project ("Are our interview transcripts included in the page-limit?" ...are you shitting me?!), I began idly flipping through the syllabus.

Awesome! Only 2 more classes left! That was certainly something to celebrate.

Then my eyes strayed over to the requirements for the research project... and there it was:

Due Date: 12/03/07

Holy Shit.

That is only... (flips over to Outlook calendar and counts...) a little over 2 weeks away! One week of which is consumed by Thanksgiving and Cousin's Wedding.

Oh... FUCK.

I really thought this project was due during Finals week... NOT the last week of class!

And suddenly I realize that in the next 2 1/2 weeks I need to:

1. Finish (okay, okay, START and Finish) Research Project, including but not limited to: Refine my research question, which is currently very vague; Conduct and transcribe 3 half-hour interviews; Analyze data from said interviews through an ethnographic lens; Generate a reading list; Write the beginning of an ethnodrama based on information gathered; Determine what is still missing (which will be quite a lot); and Write up a plan of how I plan to continue this research in the future.

Phew! Oh, but we're not done yet. There's also...

2. Complete journal for Weekend Class (due Monday after Thanksgiving)

3. Shit, before I can do that I need to re-read the book for Weekend class.

4. Catch-up on and finish journal for another class, for which I have not journaled in, oh, about 5 weeks. At least I've been writing down the prompts.

5. Papier-mache giant head and half-mask for masks class.

6. Paint all masks made to date.

7. Start and Complete final project for Masks class--which will include 2 masks and a small puppet, even though we haven't actually been shown how to make a puppet yet.

8. Hmmm, right. Go to the library and actually check out some of the recommended books on puppet making.

9. Get travel vaccinations for Uganda (happening tomorrow).

10. Go to Ugandan consulate and get travel visa.

11. Get haircut so I don't look like Cousin It at Cousin's Wedding.

12. Find pet-sitter for Thanksgiving Holiday.

13. Travel to PA, attempt to work on psychotically crowded holiday train if I am lucky enough to actually be sitting down, eat turkey, see family, have breakfast with The Girls, go to llama farm with parents, travel to Nowhere PA for Cousin's Wedding (do school work in car), attend wedding, get drunk, go back to motel and attempt to work on WC journal while intoxicated, travel back to parents' house (try to type in car while hungover), get on train, do school work (if I'm still awake), Return to NYC, get back to apartment around 10pm, sniff around the house to see if the cat's peed on anything (oh, damnit... 13a. find a way to piddle-proof the couch cushions), reassure the feline that I still love her before passing out from the sheer exhaustion of my "vacation," get up early the next morning and back to business as usual...

...all while working 30 hours a week, attending classes, and rehearsing for Outreach project, for which we have our first performance 1 week after we return from Thanksgiving Break!


Huh, what? Sorry, I think I blanked out for a minute there...

I am flashing back to a conversation I had a few months ago with another girl in my program, both of us saying "It's really weird, I thought Grad School would be harder... like, I thought I'd have more work to do, and really I don't..."

Do me a favour. If you happen to run into the Me of Two Months Ago, give her a swift kick in the ass.

And tell her to get started on that damned journal.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

We are such stuff as dreams are made of... which case I must be made of strange stuff indeed 'cause my dreams last night? Well, you be the judge:

Our adventure begings at some sort of outdoor film screening with Slater, where they are showing a very decrepit copy of Blade Runner on a large screen suspended in front of some cement steps. Apparently the folks showing this film do so in order to support a hydroponic tree-growing operation, which they assembled in the midst of the movie-goers, hence poor visibility and branches everywhere.

When the film begins, the entire audience leaves.

Then I'm walking down 48th Street with B, only it looks nothing like the 48th Street of reality and more like the "New York City of the Future" that the guy on "Dirty Sexy Money"--who played Miranda's hot-black-doctor-boyfriend on Sex and the City--envisioned... does anybody know what the hell I am talking about? Suffice it to say, it was one of those dream moments when I know where I'm technically supposed to be, even if it bears no resemblance to the actual place at all.

After a minute, B walks one way and I the other saying "See you tomorrow."

Next Slater and I are in a grocery store--but it seems to be a grocery store cum bar? nightclub? because we are waiting for people (who? I don't know) to meet us, and I'm trying to find the ingredients to make those tiny chocolate cookies you find at Starbucks, and the guy behind the cash register is trying to tell us it's last call--but really! I just need to find the chocolate chips! And is it really possible that these cookies only require three ingredients? That's what my BH&G Cookbook says...

Then I decide to use the bathroom--in the grocery store/bar/nightclub--which promptly begins flooding and the room is rocking back and forth like a ship at sea as I keep jumping up in the air and trying to brace myself against the walls to keep my shoes from getting wet.

Then, thankfully, I woke up.

I gave up analyzing my dreams ages ago. I would invariably look for some hidden meaning--a glimpse of the future perhaps, that my intuition had tucked away in some dark corner of my mind?--but much like wishing on stars and magic minutes (of which I am still all too guilty), this always ended in disappointment. Or, even more commonly, my now-quite-dusty dream dictionary would reveal things I didn't want to know or think about.

So I don't analyze, but I like to ponder. And often the dreams that remain most vivid after waking are those that are the most transparent.

Like the time I dreamt I was getting married--in a Duane Reade--with a ridiculously elaborate ceremony; yet not once did the groom appear in my dream, nor do I have any idea who he was.

Shortly after I first met B, I dreamt that we went over a waterfall together, then landed on top of seperate buildings and I lost sight of him as I climbed down. I saw him disappear over a fence and when I went to follow he was gone. This was months ago.

The subconscious is an interesting thing.

Monday, November 12, 2007

This Is Not Hope.

It is Resignation.

B Facebook-friended me last night. I accepted, and much to my credit did NOT immediately e-stalk his girlfriend. I did look at a few of his photos until I realized that the girl that kept popping up was probably her, and rubbing salt in the wound was not exactly at the top of my To Do list.

This morning I had a message. Nothing serious or profound, just a silly, sleepy something from late last night.

And as I sat here groaning to myself "Damnit, why do you have to be so perfect?" it suddenly hit me. In my gut, I knew. For good or for ill, this is going to be EE all over again.

I say this with much trepidation, for I certainly don't want to be "That Girl" again.

I shall just have to ride this tide and see where I wash up.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

A History Lesson

Damnit, something in my apartment smells bad, and I can't figure out what it is...

Anyway, hello. It's Sunday, and I'm sober now (which I absolutely was not at last posting), but I'm still pissed off. And sad. A lovely combination, no?

I went to bed remarkably early last night--being drunk and depressed will have that effect--but at least 14 hours of fitful sleep saved me from waking with a hangover today. I made some breakfast, went back to bed, got up, showered, and did laundry. Now it's 6pm and I'm trying to figure out what, if anything, I can do for the rest of the evening to keep me from obsessing over the recently imposed shift in my perspective.

Sadly I couldn't come up with anything, so I figured I'd obsess in blog form.

But first I'm going to take the trash out and hope that alleviates this horrible smell. It really is overwhelming.


It's not the trash. I just walked all over the apartment sniffing and the smell is concentrated to this particular corner of this room. Lovely. Something probably died in the wall.

I lit a candle. And I'm going into the livingroom. Yet another bonus to having a laptop.


Anyway, back to the subject at hand: my endlessly shitty love life (or lack thereof).

It may seem to the casual observer that I am taking this awfully hard. After all, it's not like I was even dating this guy, right? I just wanted to... but therein lies the crux. It is exceedingly rare that I ever meet a guy I would even want to date, and an even rarer occasion that I actually allow myself to believe that the feeling might be mutual.

Don't get me wrong, I actually think I'm quite a catch. I'm attractive, intelligent, low maintenance, I've got a good sense of humor and I'm a great cook... but I've also come to realize that while I think these are admirable qualities in a girlfriend, the male population at large generally finds me good for two things: sex, or beers and pool on a Friday night with the guys. Dating? Not so much.

The last time I was in love, I was 19 years old... and even that's a stretch, as I fell out of love with the guy about a year before I finally managed to break up with him; so I guess it would be more appropriate to say that the last time anyone was in love with me, I was 19. That relationship, which lasted for 3 1/2 years, was not a healthy one, and practically destroyed my self-esteem where men are concerned. I'm not sure I ever fully recovered. Actually, I'm fairly certain I haven't, for the longest any guy has stuck around since then is maybe two months; eventually they all disappear/cheat on me/become drama queens/some combination of those three. Or go back to ex girlfriends, like the English Ex.

Speaking of whom, funny how my current situation is suddenly so much more similar to that one, eh? I should have known... when I realized that the way I felt around B (I really can't call him Maybe Crush anymore, though I always thought I'd be making that switch for a happy reason--idiot) was the same as I felt around EE... I should have known something was up. It's like my subconscious already had it figured out.

I know lots of girls get melodramatic whenever their expectations are dashed and say "oh, I'm going to be alone forever!" before finding a new boyfriend within the month. But I really have honestly felt for quite some time that I'm just meant to be alone. Not that I'm happy about it--clearly not!--and I don't mean this in a "woe is me, my life sucks!" kind of way, but the evidence is overwhelming. If it looks like a duck, and smells like a duck...

And this is why I'm kicking myself. Kicking myself for letting myself hope--nay, believe--that this time was going to be different. As I said yesterday, why do I even bother? It all ends in tears.

Oh, and did I mention that as of last week the last remaining single friend among my close-knit group of childhood friends--my Girls--is now engaged. I am now the only one--the pariah. Even the couple that can't legally marry has bought a house, and a car, and a dog. We get together and they all sit around talking about mortgages and weddings and babies, comparing wedding albums and diamonds, and what can I do? Tell them about yet another one night stand? Another night spent alone? It's fucking depressing.

And at the current juncture there is no happy outcome for me. I'll still see B every day, and like I said I'll still talk to him, and smoke with him, and walk to the train with him... but it won't be the same. The giddiness is gone. And he knows. Whenever we're together I'm going to wonder if he's pitying me. If he's told his girlfriend what I told him. I don't want to think those things--he seemed genuinely upset when he said he hoped this didn't mean I would stop talking to him, and that he's glad we met, that I was the first person here he felt he could really talk to.

Yeah, twist that knife a little deeper pal.

And sure, as Spunk said, perhaps his "complicated" relationship will eventually end--but a break-up does not an automatic happy-ending make. First of all, there's no saying he would actually want to date me even if he were single, and second, do I want to be complicated-relationship-rebound-girl? No thanks. Been there, done that, and it all ends the same.

(See Also: The One That Got Away; or ED, who I'd been casually seeing/fooling around with for a few weeks, and then one morning after I'd spent the night I ask if he wants to go get breakfast and he says "actually, I've been talking to my ex-girlfriend and we're getting back together"; or T, who said he wanted to date... then the next time we make plans tells me that actually, his ex called him being all crazy and now he realizes he's not ready; or EM, who I actually waited till the third date to sleep with, and who then systematically bailed on me every time we made plans thereafter and I later learned through the grapevine that he was just coming out of a long term relationship; and of course, let's not forget EE...)

Right. Some other highlights of the asshole pool include the Alcoholic Chef who, after 2 weeks of dating asked me in the middle of sex if I loved him, then stopped calling because he "got bored" and I later learned was screwing half of Manhattan; or the guy who went to my good friend to say "I think I made a mistake, I'd rather be dating you," yet let me think that I broke up with him and therefore was still able to booty call me several times over the next year until my friend finally told me what had happened--after he'd moved to Pittsburgh.

Is it any wonder I have trust issues? Sometimes I wonder if there is a sign on my forehead saying "Nice guys need not apply," or what strange switch in my brain only allows me to be attracted to men I can't have. Even when I don't know that I can't have them.

This whole situation would have been so much simpler if I'd just known up front that B had a girlfriend. Sure, I still would have been attracted to him--the boy is HOT--but that would have been it. He would have been "my hot guy friend that has a girlfriend." The End.

Instead I get this emotional clusterfuck that only serves to reinforce what I've been telling myself for years. I'm just meant to be alone.

I just wish I could get used to it.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

The End

Why do I even fucking bother?





and yet I poured my heart out anyway.

And then I cried on both the A and the G trains--something I swore I'd never do... yet I couldn't stop the tears from dripping down my cheeks.

And he tells me it's complicated, and he's glad we met and he hopes I won't stop speaking to him. And I tell him of course I won't, I'm not that kind of girl.

And I ask if he's heard the questions I've heard... are we dating?

He hasn't.

And he hugs me goodbye and I keep it together until he's out of eyesight.

And I cry the whole way home.

And I'm crying now.

What the fuck? Why do I bother giving a shit about any man when no man gives a shit about me?

I'm not looking for a husband, or kids.. all I want is someone to curl up next to and go to sleep... Is that really so much to ask??

Apparently it is, because the universe has been denying me for so long. Every man wants to either be my friend and/or sleep with me, but none of them actually want to care about me.

And I hate myself for even considering that maybe this time I had a chance. History should have taught me better.

Apparently I'm a fucking masochist... but I guess that's just what I am.

Seriously... will this shit never end?

Okay Universe... I get it!

First of all, 6:30am is way too early to wake up on a Saturday.

Second, check out the horoscope that was waiting in my inbox:

Your perfect timing and unpredictable ways will disorientate your prey, so if you are interested in somebody, come forward without hesitating.


Friday, November 9, 2007

So Be It

Ahhh, rainy Friday.

I must admit, I was in a bit of a funk today. I'm not entirely sure why, every now and then the psyche just lurches that way and all I can do is ride it out. And bitch at length to my friends via gmail chat while at work (thanks Spunk!). So once I escaped work half an hour early thanks to yesterday's early arrival, I took a stroll down to Union Square to buy cat food and pick up some fresh apple cider at Greenmarket, with a stop off at Trader Joe's on the way home (god that place is a zoo on Fridays!).

Then I came home and cleaned the house. Such an exciting life I lead, no? But somehow vacuuming up all the cat hair that has gone untouched for the past month and clearing the clutter off the diningroom table perked me up a bit. Which is odd, as I rather hate cleaning.

I was really in the mood to watch a movie where lots of things explode, but somehow my 5,000 channels of cable tv managed to disappoint me in that respect; and it seems that my DVD of "The Long Kiss Goodnight" has gone missing (and I know nobody borrowed that one), so I was left in a quandary... what to watch? What to watch?

And there it was, tucked away in a corner of my DVD cabinet... "Pump Up The Volume."

Oh yes, nothing like vintage Christian Slater faking orgasms and taking off his shirt to lift even the dullest of spirits.

Then, as I was watching, it dawned on me... in the age before the internet, Happy Harry Hardon was the precursor of the blog.

Think about it: He can barely form a sentence to anyone face to face, but there he sits, alone in his basement, with a microphone... and out comes his soul. Just replace the microphone with a keyboard and it's pretty much the same. I started this blog for the hell of it, never really thinking anyone would read it. It's basically like keeping a journal, just without the writer's cramp.

Yet there you are. You actually listen. And many of you have stuck around. I think that's pretty damned cool.

Just don't go trashing the halls of your high school / grad school / place of employment / etc. I don't have a Jeep (or a Samantha Mathis) to help me evade the FCC.

So that's my deep bit of wisdom for the evening. Now I am off to attempt to memorize some lines and then hit the sack; for while the weekend class has finally ended, I still have rehearsal at 9am tomorrow.

And afterwards... day drinking with Maybe Crush.

Wish me luck!

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Mr. Cellophane

In Ed Theatre we talk a lot about Transparency.

As educators we will often use dramatic activities as a sort of "sly" inroad to get students thinking seriously on a topic without having to come right out and say "Today I want to talk about Sex/Racism/Politics/Peer-Pressure/Etc." Transparency is when you don't occlude your aim--though a more effective lead-in is something along the lines of "We're going to explore some themes surrounding..." but this is not a lesson in classroom theory.

Transparency can also apply to honesty about yourself, i.e.- "I've never tried this particular exercise before, so we'll see how it goes," or stopping an activity that is crashing and burning by saying "Okay, this doesn't appear to be working... let's talk about why."

And once again, Transparency also appears to apply to my personal life, and my seeming inability to hide my total infatuation with Maybe Crush from anyone but him.

This evening before class I was smoking on the sidewalk with Maybe Crush and Slater, and MC goes inside because he is freezing. I made some silly comment as I watched the back of his head recede through the doors and Slater looks at me and says "You're totally crushing on him."

"You're right," I say, "I totally am," and we both dissolve into giggles.

"It's okay though," he says, "I think he kinda is too."


I proceeded to tell him about yesterday's conversation with C and he tells me that he too has been asked several times whether Maybe Crush and I are dating...

See, this is the point where I have a confession to make: I have been living in a complete state of déjà vu for the past month. You've all heard me mention the English Ex before... well, let me give you a little background:

I met the English Ex while I was studying abroad in, well, England. The first semester I was only taking one module (course), which met 4 days a week, nearly all day every day. This is where I met EE, though we didn't start hanging out until about a month into the term. Class had let out early due to inclement weather (don't ask), and one of the girls therefore had a few hours to kill before catching a train. So I, English Ex, and another guy from our class popped across the street to the pub to have a drink and keep her company while she waited.

She eventually caught her train but EE and I stayed in the pub and continued drinking... and drinking... and soon a few of his mates and his girlfriend showed up to take us back to his house to continue drinking.

Yes. His Girlfriend. I really can't come up with a polite nickname for her because in all honesty I couldn't stand her, so we'll just call her... Her. They'd been together for 5 or so years and lived together in the student house they shared with several other people--and whence our merry band retired to continue drinking until the wee hours of the morning, and in whose spare bedroom I slept a very drunken sleep.

At this juncture, I couldn't have cared less that She existed. I didn't fancy EE at all, and while I found Her somewhat irritating in general, I made nice as EE and I were spending more and more time together--in fact, we were nearly inseparable. He was my best friend. She was hardly thrilled, but I thought nothing of it. Come on, I wasn't any sort of threat! What was her problem anyway?

Then one day we were having lunch somewhere and somehow She came up in conversation. I don't know what prompted it but I simply asked him "Are you happy?"

"Yeah, I guess so," was his response, and after a few awkward seconds conversation resumed as normal. We left the pub where we'd been eating and were heading off to go boot shopping (for him), and I couldn't quite let go of this nagging feeling at the back of my mind that something had changed.

A few days later I was on a trip with the other students studying abroad from my university, and EE and I were texting each other the entire time. Finally my friend HC asks who I'm talking to and I tell her. And then she drops the bomb: "Do you fancy him? Because it kinda seems like you do."

It was like someone had flipped a light switch and that nagging feeling that had been lurking in the back of my head for days slammed into the front of my skull like a freight train.

I fancied the hell out of him.

And what's more, it seemed like he fancied me too.

But then there was Her.

So what the hell was I going to do?

Things became increasingly bizarre after that, suddenly I didn't know how to behave around him. And worse, our mutual friends all began teasing us, asking what was going on. "Don't be ridiculous, he has a girlfriend! It would be like dating my brother!" I protested, as every fiber of my body cried out for just that.

And then one night we kissed.

We lingered, our faces literally millimeters apart, for what seemed like hours. I was so torn, I didn't want to be That Girl. The girl who breaks up the happy couple. The Homewrecker. And also, even there with his lips so close to mine that I could feel his breath, I still wasn't sure that he actually wanted me. But eventually the gnawing longing building in my chest won out and I closed that millimeter gap. I kissed him.

The next day he broke up with Her. I'm sure he felt worse about it than I did but the guilt was killing me. We were together, but keeping it a secret to avoid hurting Her. He had tried to tell her it wasn't because of me, but the girl wasn't a fool... she knew long before either of us did where our relationship was headed.

In more ways than one.

We eventually came out into the open--drama students aren't stupid, they all knew. They'd already been teasing us for months, when he left Her they all immediately concluded that I was the reason, no matter how much we denied it. I think they were relieved actually, the sexual tension was driving more than just us crazy!

Then I went home to the States for Christmas. When I came back he dumped me and went back to Her.

So I lost the man I cared about AND my best friend, all in one fell swoop. And that just sucked.

I share this long and somewhat self-pitying story for two reasons. First, it shows the sort of luck I have with relationships.

Second, that feeling I had from the moment the lightbulb went on in my head until that moment when I kissed him... that is exactly how I have felt for the past few months. And that's not all bad, by any means! There's the happy silly moments when I think that maybe he could actually like me too... but there's also the moments when I am thoroughly convinced that I'm kidding myself.

And there are the moments when I remember how it all turned out the last time I felt this way.

But after what Slater said to me tonight, and even though optimism has bitten me in the ass before, I can't help but hope that I see the light at the end of the tunnel.

And maybe, just maybe, it's not an oncoming train.

Monday, November 5, 2007

The Plot Fucking Thickens...

I have always had a tendency to make things more difficult than they need to be. I will make a school project more involved than the requirements state, or do something in a roundabout way that takes 5 times longer than it should simply because that's-the-way-I-want-to-do-it-damnit!, but now it seems this habit extends--subconsciously--to my personal life as well.

The following conversation took place between myself and C (the afore-mentioned friend that Maybe Crush likes to screw with), via lip-reading/stage-whispers hidden by scripts, halfway across a room during rehearsal this evening.

C catches my eye.

C: Are you and Maybe Crush dating?

Froggy: No, why?

C: [Another Girl in the Show] was asking and I didn't know, so I said I'd ask you. {pause}... Why not?

Froggy shrugs

C: I think you should!

and then, before I could stop myself...

Froggy: I do too!

Damnit! So there it is, the cat is out of the bag.

This conversation was followed by much gesticulation including a long-distance pinky-swearing of silence, but the fact remains that somebody knows. Somebody who actually knows who Maybe Crush is, and sees us together on a fairly regular basis.

While on one hand I now have a comrade in arms, as she told me to rest assured that she has no interest (which I pretty much figured) and would help try to facilitate meetings outside of school by dragging us both out socially, it was still exceedingly difficult not to behave differently on the group walk to the subway.

In some way it just feels like middle school all over again. It's so hard to be around someone that I am SO attracted to and have someone else in the vicinity know what's going on--it feels like I'm being scrutinized or something.

There is one up-side to all of this: somebody thought we were dating... that's gotta be a good sign, right?

Submitted for your approval...

First of all... PHEW! After 16 hours of class in 2 days, this evening around 6pm marked the end of the dreaded weekend class! Hoorah! My weekends are mine once again!

Except for 9am rehearsals for outreach company on Saturdays. Damn.

Regardless, it has been a looooong weekend. A long Maybe Crush filled weekend, but long none-the-less. I tried to coerce him and my fellow group members to join me for a drink after class and was met with varying levels of excuses (pansies), but was also met with the promise of drinks next Saturday after AM rehearsal (in which all are involved). We'll see who keeps their word.

As I was unable to find school-friends to join me for the much needed alcoholic beverage, I called upon Brooklyn friends instead--specifically A, who was happy to join me. However, at the time she happened to be already having a drink with Friend of A, who came along with her to see me. This was the first time I'd seen him since, well, the last time I saw him, and much to his (and my!) credit, it was only marginally awkward.

It did, however, put a damper on my plans to obsess about Maybe Crush with A... although we did manage a brief post-mortem or two during a few bathroom breaks.

However, I still must put this to you my dear readers:

In the midst of conversation at the bar, a play was brought up and I couldn't for the life of me remember who'd written it. While I thought I knew the answer, I wasn't certain; and I knew that the self-same play had come up in a conversation with Maybe Crush earlier in the day.

Thanks to the contact list from the outreach program, I "just happened" to have his number in my phone, so I shot him a text message asking who'd written it. I left the phone on the table for 10 minutes or so, and when he hadn't texted back I gave up and put it back in my pocket.

Another 15 minutes or so go by, and... my phone RINGS. Yes, instead of texting back, he called me. He confirmed that the playwright was, indeed, who I'd thought, and we chatted for a few minutes and after teasing him that I was in a bar and he could have been as well, I was given the promise that he would go out for drinks on Saturday (and, of course, after said promise I threatened bodily harm should he renege).

And so, here is my question: it's a good sign that he called as opposed to texting... right?

Honestly, I don't know; and my male friends were no help in dissecting the situation. They were also no help in determining the significance in the fact that he endlessly screws with another friend of ours, but more or less leaves me alone (except for the moment when he was screwing up her hair and she said "you never do this to Froggy, why?" and I responded "because he doesn't like me," and then he proceeded to do it to me as well). I have always subscribed to the whole elementary-school-playground theory that boys only screw with you because they like you... but could the opposite be the case here? A seems to think so...

Sorry, overly neurotic here today... must be the lack of sleep.

Seriously, do men do this shit? Over analyze every little move a girl makes?

I have no idea if any men read this blog, but if they do (and haven't become completely terrified of women in the process), what's your take? Do you obsess like we do? Even in your own special manly way?

Inquiring minds want to know...

Friday, November 2, 2007

I want you...

I want you so ba-a-a-a-a-ad
I want you-oo-oo-oo-oo
I want you so ba-a-a-ad, it's driving me mad
It's driving me mad.

This is what plays in my head every time I come within 5 feet of Maybe Crush. And I've determined a few things:

1. He is completely unaware of how ridiculously sexy he is; and
2. He is completely unaware of how desperately I want to jump his bones.

He came to see a play on campus with me this evening, as I oh-so-conveniently had an extra ticket. We met for a drink beforehand, saw the show, smoked a cigarette, and walked to the train... and the entire time all I wanted to was pounce on him and make out like teenagers right there beside Duane Reade.

I don't know how much longer I can take this. It's like that episode of Seinfeld (god I hate myself for making a Seinfeld reference) where not having sex makes George smarter and Elaine dumber.

This past week I've had trouble forming complete sentences, and I thought it was just due to my insane schedule and lack of sleep. Now I think it's because all of my braincells are being consumed with playing out every potential scenario (for good or for ill) when I finally break down and just blurt out "damnit, I like you!"

Honestly, I could write a dozen romantic comedies (or really depressing chick flicks) with the material I've created while smoking on the fire escape this past week.

Hmmm, well I guess it's comforting to know that if my teaching career fails, I could always get a job writing for the CW. Think I'll head out to the fire escape and work on my portfolio...

The Smallest Thing Known to Man

Anyone out there ever listen to the Dr. Demento radio show when you were a kid?

To be honest, I didn't. But years and years ago I was about to embark on the annual 8 hour drive to see the family in Ohio and High School Boyfriend loaned me a set of tapes he'd recorded from the radio when he was younger (remember when we used to do that?). For those unfamiliar, Dr. D's show consists entirely of ridiculous--and highly entertaining--songs, such as "Star Trekkin'" and "The Existential Blues," which provided many hours of entertainment on that otherwise uneventful sojourn on the PA Turnpike.

Hmmmm... you know, I really ought to give those tapes back. It has been nearly a decade since we split.

At any rate, I bring this up because one song in particular--the title of this post, in fact--has popped into my head every morning this week. It's by a man named Lorne Elliot, and here are the first few lines:

The smallest thing that's known to man's a subatomic particle measured scientifically under lab conditions to be ten centimeters taken to the minus thirteenth power.

But though this thing is very small, it's really not that small at all compared to the line that is ever so fine, that separates the hot from the cold on the handle of my shower.

But even if you manage to adjust it just exactly like you like it, there are still one hundred thousand different combinations different permutations; things which can and maybe will go wrong...

At which point he goes on to describe an incident involving a lady friend and unfortunate unexpected change in temperature--and at which point the similarity to my own life ends, my recent showers having all been solo expeditions.

That being said, I think my shower is possessed.

Ever since I moved into the apartment, adjusting the temperature on the shower has required a great deal of patience and trepidation. The steps heretofore required have been:

1. Turn on hot tap (which is on the wrong side) all the way. Wait for water to get scalding hot.

2. Turn on cold tap all the way.

3. Turn hot tap all the way off. Hold a finger in the stream and wait until the moment when the water just begins to cool down.

4. Turn hot tap back up maybe 1/4 turn. Wait a minute and check temperature. If water is...
...Too cold: adjust tap by millimeters until temperature is acceptable.
...Too hot: return to step 3 and repeat.

Pain in the ass, yes?

Well for the past week all that careful planning has been for naught, as my shower seems to have limited itself to two temperatures--Cold and FUCKING HOT--between which it chooses to vacillate at intermittent intervals with neither rhyme nor reason.

It makes showering a bit of an adventure (though more in the Indiana-Jones-in-Room-Full-of-Insects way than the Kathleen-Turner-and-Michael-Douglas-Necking-in-the-Jungle kind of way) and the result of which is that I have been late for work every day this week.

And I always arrive with that song stuck in my head.

It's been a long week.